


A Drop Too Much

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-15
Updated: 2005-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: When you live with an addict, eventually there is a drop too much.





	A Drop Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

A Drop Too Much

### A Drop Too Much

#### by Griva

  


A Drop Too Much  
Rating: R, adult situations and mind that I describe an addict's way of life and that's not always a pretty picture.   
Notes: the third and - possibly - last of my AU MK series. Dedicated to _Susan_ aka CrimsonSenya, my recent passionate and cherished friend. 

* * *

The damn clicking sound from next door, the one which woke me, had been going on for half an hour, and to my dismay, showed no sign of ending. I pondered the fact that maybe it was a reincarnation of God standing on the other side of the wall, snapping his fingers, telling me to get up and live the life I've been given, but not being one to believe, I quickly pushed that notion away. However, with the notion also went the bedcovers, and like it or not, I got up. I couldn't just lie there all day and hope that the noise would stop, 'cause, knowing God and his bloody law, it wouldn't. 

I pulled on some grey sweats, fresh from the floor's 'to be washed' pile that had assembled itself next to the abandoned linen bin, finger-combed my sticky hair and opened the door from my room to the living room. 

Struck by a pungent, nasty smell, I wondered how long I'd been asleep. Long enough for humanity to waste away? Yeah sure, Rip Van Winkle Junior, that'd be me. I looked around for the milk carton, usually the cause of said 'smelly' problems, and finding nothing, continued my way downstairs, to food and absolution (i.e. vodka). 

I made myself the usual breakfast of one shot, plus cereal and milk. When you're an alcoholic though, everything else is just required stuff to go with your nice, happy little beverage of love that keeps you ticking, so to speak. 

Turning round I found the milk carton, sure enough, spilled all over the floor. Damn rude to spill and not clean up if you ask me. Or was it me? Who else lives here with me? I forget. 

I begin to clean up the milk, think, fuck it, and put a towel over the mess, down another shot, pull the sweats off me and make my way to the shower. Opening up the door to my bathroom, and I repeat, my bathroom, I find a guy sprawled out barely clothed, his vaguely familiar face with an impudent little nose distorted, dark hair matted together with sweat, an inverse halo coming down to spike him. I see the needle, and then I see the soft foam dripping from his mouth, only slightly, but still a sign that says DANGER in a big bold font. In my line of duty, that I remember through the mists of days gone by, I've seen so many people OD and be rushed to hospital. If this guy is the same, then he's in deep shit 'cause my driving license is suspended for repeated DUI and I'm not sure if the phone works at the moment... shit. 

What I don't see however, is how he fucking got there! 

Hoping he isn't dead, I lean down to him to see if he's still breathing. Just. I can smell him; the smell of sex and drugs. I wonder whether it was me who's fucked him or someone else. I plant a kiss on his forehead because ...I feel horny all over all of a sudden, just as he coughs; phlegm and foam spraying over my bare chest. His eyes open, flash of unusual jade, focus, then close again. 

How the fuck has he managed to pull through whatever he's just done, which is heroine most likely. I myself don't dabble with drugs, well not hardcore stuff. Only weed here and there. 

"Our first kiss and you throw up on me? Is that how it's gonna be, huh?" For some reason that seems like an odd thing to say, and I feel a sense of deja vu. 

I grin cheekily at him. He still tries to focus, his eyes opening and closing as the spluttering continues. I then attempt to help him up. He is a surprisingly big guy for my liking. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fag. Well, I used to be pansexual because it was in fashion in 1999 and because in the gay bars I started to frequent back when I was on a state payroll, it was safer to wind down after a day questioning cannibals and there was always someone to buy me a drink, even if I told them straightaway that I'm not going upstairs with them... but eventually I did, as far as I can remember. Did I pick this one fey up? He's got a round babyface, dusted by day old whiskers that make him look...dissolute, but he IS a big guy...I'd suggest... everywhere. As I appraised him, he pushes me away and sits upright by himself, one arm on either side of the bath supporting him. He turns his head, wipes the spittle from his face and looks at me. 

"How long was I out for?" 

I laugh a little, a worried laugh, worried at my own state, but then again I've never been selfless. It's alcohol that makes you like that, or at least I think it is. I can't think that far back, so I don't know if I was like it before. 

"Sorry love, I have no fuckin' clue. No idea who you are, why you're here, where you've come from..." I try to think of other ways to confirm my confusion, but my head's a mess, and it hurts, so I stop. 

Briefly, in a flash, I imagined how it must have been if I fucked him. I could see the tendons straining in his neck, can see the way he is gritting his teeth and trying to keep silent but oh, God, the sounds he'd be making. His lips are not full, but exquisitely carved, wet with spittle now...I feel my cock jut with blood and I can picture that mouth sucking me. Me trembling, convulsing around his slick, hard cock in my ass... 

I get hornier, he gets pissier. His eyes turn cold, and he judges me, sitting bare amidst a bathroom full of grime, smiling down at him. I feel like a fool, and try to clean myself up and cover my nakedness. I'm not used to people being in my house in the morning; they usually just come in the evening and are gone by the time I regain consciousness. 

He laughs at me, and then slaps my face, cold, hard. A real bitchslap. And that's what I brand him. Bitch. But I like the burn of the slap. I know I like to push around, but since when do I enjoy being slapped? 

"You've really got to stop with the drinking you know? Can't even remember your own boyfriend. How long have we been living together now? 5 weeks. Damn prick! I'd be offended if I weren't so bloody used to it!" 

I stare at his face, a wrinkled cheek and a hint of an old bruise under his right eye, an eerily handsome face; his body - accurate behind, softer stomach and long, crafted arms and legs, and try to remember some sort of visual thing that'd remind me about him. I give up, turn round, grab the whiskey off the top of the toilet and have a swig. Ah, sweet memory juice! 

I turn round, try again and begin to recognize this strange creature sitting in my bathtub. He kisses me, and I can taste his morning mouth, rancid and unclean. But I love it, and kiss him back. We are both dirty, and my body reminds me that I like dirty. 

As his tongue rapes the hollow of either side of my mouth, a probing insect, I begin to remember it all. And he's right; I've got to stop drinking so much. 

The day I met him; out clubbing in Stonewall, WV, getting drunk off my ass on whatever cocktails the barman and men buying me drinks would provide. Then he comes up to me, dressed up like a depressed Tom of Finland, and I love him immediately, from his black denims and a studded arm band, to his nipple piercings, openly visible under his washed out tee. I tried not to stare. 

"Drink?" 

He nods, "Martini Dry, straight." 

I wonder what sort of person drinks straight Martini, no ice or anything, then realize: a person like me. I fumble around in my pockets for some change, but realizing I've spent my lot, I mumble an apology. 

He however, smiles at me and turns out a crisp 10 along with a couple of silvers. He sways his head as if he had longer hair that would have swayed behind him, his neck is taut and pale, his lips curve wryly. Dazzling. 

I just prepare to comment that those German mutts Rammstein should be castrated for covering Depeche Mode's Stripped... 

"I love this song! Dance with me." 

Before I even nod my consent, or tell him that actually, I'm really not into this hyped up growling crap and I don't dance, he drags me out, drinks in hand mind you, into the midst of a large group of men of all outfits and sizes. We move as one, my hands not knowing where to go. My eyes darting from lips back to eyes. His body changing rhythm to compliment my steps, which seem awkward and jerky in comparison with the way he flows, grinding up against me. People stare and he enjoys the attention. And I start to love it too, and so I lean in and kiss him, just in time to realize that he's drunk too much, and hence, he throws up down my open shirt. Being drunk, I found it all terribly funny and wasn't actually annoyed. 

"Our first kiss and you throw up on me? Is that how it's gonna be, huh?" 

Coming back to the normal world, I smile, take him in my arms and rock back and forth, stroking his cheek with the back of my hand, embracing him, diverting him from the fact that I'd once again had a memory lapse and awakening to the fact that I love him. I tell him so, a whisper in his ear. 

He says nothing back, and I wonder if he's fallen asleep on me, with the rocking and all... 

But no, his eyes are open and he's looking around at the bathroom. His face is expressionless, but it leans slightly towards sadness. 

He turns and looks at me, makes direct eye contact, something I've never been comfortable with, and says, "How can you love me..." He looks deep into my eyes now, "If you can't even remember who I am?" 

"But I do remember! I know who you are, I know your name and I love you, Alan! I really do." 

He doesn't look convinced. He strains and picks up the whiskey bottle, holds it in my face and says, not shouts, just says "Alan, right? Exactly. Now...great. You love this. You only love me when you've made love to this, when it's in your veins." 

"Says you who's just shot up!" 

"That is beside the point! When I met you, I was stone cold sober, not a drop of alcohol in my blood." 

"Correction. When you met me, you got so fucking shit faced that you threw up on me! Don't you make me sound like the one who has a problem here! This is my fucking house, and yet you feel the right to be able to criticize and judge! Fuck you, Alan." I grumble the last bit, as I never like swearing at him. It hurts too damn much. 

"Alan, right?" He squints, and his eyes throw the sharpest daggers. 

I still must be doing something wrong. 

"I'm _ALEX_ , fuck YOU!" 

He thrusts the whiskey bottle at me, stands up, teeters a little, but then steps out of the bath, trying not to look at me (I can tell by the way he fixed his eyes on the lamp ahead of the door, cause it's a damn ugly lamp, and there are many better looking things in my house), and walks, no, stomps off down the hall into the bedroom. 

He doesn't even bother to slam the door, he just leaves it open so I can hear him start muttering and cursing. I stand in the doorway, cursing myself half-heartedly, my arms pressed out hard against the doorframe, trying not to lash out at something. If I still prided myself with my eidetic memory, then if I wrote his name on the wall, I'd not have gotten him pissed. 

"ALEX, what are you doing?" 

It's a stupid question considering the situation; he's scrambling about, picking up clothes, and stuff, checking the drawers. The big clue, and this is what makes the question even more ignorant, is a Nike sports bag lying on my bed, plus, of course, the fact that everything he touches is flung into that suitcase. Apart from a sneaker; that is thrown at my head. Once I had been one for ball sports, but I duck just too late to avoid the heel hitting my forehead. Nice. 

He growls something at me which I interpret to be what do you think I'm doing moron! 

I walk around behind him, frenzied and thrusting various objects of leather further into his sports bag, try to embrace him, calm him down. For a few moments I'm intimidated by his size, and regret that it's not a petite redhead woman I used to call my partner before she filed a transfer and found herself a different vocation. Or was she a brunette? He turns towards me, looking up at my face, looks right into my eyes. And shoves me hard, far from him, and then continues with his packing. 

I think we have been through this before. Like...on Monday. And then we fucked right on the floor and I hit my head on the table corner and nearly blacked out as I came. Right, here is a small bump at my temple. 

It takes 2 hours of trying the hug-and-comfort technique before it actually starts to work... Now we're lying in bed, not post-coital for once I assure you. I'm holding him, stroking his head. We've both showered; he smells of cedar-wood. Fast asleep, his head lying in the nook of my arm, I can feel his breath run over my skin, the soft in and out that keeps us all working. 

The room is dark but for the slow iridescent glow of street lamps outside, casting shadows. My mind focuses on these shadows, plays with them till they become unique beings, each with a sense of humor and personality. The smoke from the joint I rolled earlier, now sitting, smoldering in a near by ash tray, coils into the depths of the room, distorting the shadow-creatures even more. I'm scared because I still remember the creatures I saw but no one believed I did: the mothman and the flukeman, the giant brain sucking praying mantis and the Fiji mermaid. I'm 36, and I'm still on the meager payroll as an urban subculture and modern myth consultant and a paranormal mag editor, but I've been mostly squandering a handsome trust fund my shot-in-the-head father had left me. It was a very unselfish move from the grump with whom I had only one common taste - for good old scotch, and with whom I have not talked to for six years. I sold his house at the down-market price, because they knew in the neighborhood the old man was murdered. 

The witness said that he was shot by a tall man in a brown leather jacket. Sometimes I fantasize that Alan...damn...Alex is the one, the mysterious stranger, a secret hit-man in service of the Government, a sexy misunderstood bastard. Because I don't know what he is doing for a living. In my blue-collared days the mere supposition that I'm living with a hustler or a drug pusher would have given me a stroke. Or maybe...maybe that's why I get hard whenever he is within grabbing distance or without. But he's been good to me, in all ways. That is when I remember he's been around...And although I don't usually like to admit it, this is different, as I'm emotionally tired from the day's events. So I get up, to go calm myself with a sturdy drink. 

I sit down with a tumbler glass and some gin, (no tonic). There's no ice, so I'll have to drink it straight, but that doesn't really bother me. I fill the booze right up to the lip of the glass; the slow glug as alcohol is exchanged for air inside the bottle comforts me. 

I drink one or two more of these glasses, the bitter taste inside my throat which burns and makes my thirst unquenchable doesn't stop me, and soon I'm bent over the toilet, hand on stomach as if to prevent it from falling out should it try to escape up my throat, throwing up bloody vomit. Now this really hurts my throat, and I curse my badly timed decision to mix weed with alcohol. So many people do it at parties I should know better than to be so freaking stupid. 

I hear his footfalls as he walks from the bed to the bathroom, clicking on the hall light outside the door, thrusting light upon my shameful situation. He crouches down on his knees behind me. He rubs my back and asks, 

"Was it bad weed? I told you that Paul wasn't reliable, yet you still went with it. Silly thing." His voice was soft and caring, which soothed me immediately. I nodded. 

"I'll go get you a drink of water and some aspirin for when you're done here," he taps the toilet seat directly in front of me so I can see to what he's gesturing without having to turn around, "silly thing. Well, at least it wasn't alcohol. I'm proud of you, deciding to give it up." 

My eyes go wide as I remember my promise to him: 

__*I love you A.L.E.X., don't leave me. I'll give up the drink, you mean so much more than it ever could to me. __*

I hear him go through into the kitchen; light clicked on, his feet slapping on the lino, the clunk of the water tank as the tap is turned on, the after drip as the water spills over the side of the glass, light clicked off and out. 

His feet return to the soft carpet but I hear them still, walking through the living room, back to me. But the footfalls stop. I know what he's seen. 

There's silence from him for a minute, which seems to go on forever as I spasm and cough. Then he erupts into the bathroom, grabs my shoulders and turns me around, gin bottle in hand. I know there is already a bruise forming under his grip. 

His eyes are luminescent with ire. He smashes the bottle over the bath. He screams at me, Liar! Bastard! and there is a sob threaded in between. I close my eyes only to have the wind knocked out of me by a firm foot to the stomach (if he was a bitch, he'd go for the nuts), accompanied with two hard slaps. 

"You promised, you fucker! You fucking promised me! Promised!" The last 'promised' is more cried rather than shouted into my face. 

I open my eyes, still reeling and holding my stomach from the kick, just in time to see him fly out of the bathroom. Seconds later he returns, his black steel-tipped boots on his feet, leather jacket over the short running shorts, sports-bag over the shoulder. It's just struck me that he kept the bag packed. I feel like such a fool, a thick, stupid fool. 

The drama seems to have been put on hold, and his voice has returned to normal as he stands in the doorway and speaks to me. 

"I could have loved you Fox, but I can't get it into your head what you're doing to yourself. I smoke, and I don't mind a wild romp, but I'm not going to fucking rot here with an alkash** who remembers my name only on Mondays. I hope you sort your life out or seek some help, otherwise you're going to end up all alone, only drink and memories left. And that's not really that much." My stomach heaves and I can no longer hold back the spasms of putrid waste, it overfloods my intent for another promise, of saying something... and I collapse and throw up onto the floor. 

"Goodbye, Mulder. Don't try to call me or contact me. You won't find me." 

I try to speak out, to object that is he sure he does not need help himself but my body is taken over by the volatile fluid erupting from the pit of my stomach. I hear the front door slam and his feet stomping down the stairs. 

I'm coated in blood from a split lip and sick, sweating from my forehead. Crying from my eyes. 

Alex. I remember...Today is a Friday. 

/end 

  * alkash - in Russian, short and derisive for an alcoholic. 



August 15th, 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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